


The Homunculus, King Bradley

by Marcellebelle



Series: seven sins of the homunculi [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Canon: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood, Character Motivations, Character Study, Gen, Homunculi, Philosophy, Unreliable Narrator, ish
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:28:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23897527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marcellebelle/pseuds/Marcellebelle
Summary: He turns the photograph of the child over in his hands, unruffled when he discovers the inscription, hastily scribbled in a rich blue ink:Selim Mustang.This boy is the perfect child. He’s sure of it.---------------------------------------------aka: why King Bradley allowed Roy Mustang to live after he killed Lust.
Relationships: Envy & Lust & Pride & Wrath, King Bradley & Roy Mustang, Lust & Wrath (King Bradley), Selim Bradley & Roy Mustang
Series: seven sins of the homunculi [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022191
Comments: 21
Kudos: 53





	1. 1881

There’s a woman at his office door: medium height, brunette, dark eyes brimming with unshed tears. There's an odd moment of recognition, and he thinks-- considers-- _discards_ the possibility that he's met her before. 

Ridiculous.

He plays his role well, he thinks; the handsome, young officer, fresh faced and earnest. He smiles politely as steps back to allow her entry. "Right this way, Ma'am."

Once they are both seated, she slides a tattered missing child report across his desk.

He doesn't look at it save for a cursory glance. "Why have you brought this to me?" he asks, not unkindly.

She flinches anyway, her eyes darting around the room uncomfortable as she speaks. "Sir," it's barely a whisper, her cheeks flushing a rosy pink. She's intimidated. "I-- I just wanted--"

He holds up a hand. "Please try to relax," he smiles widely at her, baring his teeth in his most charming grin. "I know I look scary, but I won't take a bite out of you, Ma'am."

That's Gluttony's prerogative. His brother is... of a special sort.

She lets out a titter, her posture softening, her nervous lips quirking up a little. "It's about the report. I think-- well, no. I-- it's _you._ "

Huh.

It’s unexpected. He has half a mind not to bother with this. It’s perfectly ridiculous, of course, and he _can_ forcibly have her escorted off the premises, but--

\-- but, her navy eyes are wide, trusting almost-- although they _would_ be, wouldn’t they? He is, after all, a dashing general, the _hero,_ legacy built on the blood of those before him, on the sweat and toil of those yet to come. She must _worship_ him, with those round eyes-- eyes so similar to his own (just _one_ of his own) that he starts to wonder if perhaps she _is_ telling the truth--

No, that can’t be right.

She’s prattling, and he thinks she's maybe a little _too_ comfortable now. “Of course, you must visit your nephew! He’s just turned three, and he’s learning _so much_ . His name is Selim, you know? We named him after my-- oh, _our--_ father. Papa was such a _kind_ and _generous_ man, he’d have loved to see you grow up, you’ve gotten so _handsome_ \--”

She talks too much, and he has to grit his teeth to stop the rage from showing on his face. His handsome face. Still young. Unlike his brothers and sister-- his _real_ sister, the beautiful, ever-youthful Lust-- he is going to age. He will grow old, his face will wrinkle and crease. He wonders, sometimes, whether he would have cared in another life, in a _human_ life, but he doesn’t give this much thought, for it’s no use to dwell on something that could neverhave happened. 

“I’m sorry, Ma'am,” he says, because he has an image to protect: ever the gentleman, isn’t that _ironic?_ He is sure Father did this on purpose. Wrath, respectful and gentlemanly? Calm and collected, ever to rage on and yet never to let it show? Cruel, of course, but nothing he hadn’t expected from his callous sire. “I apologise,” he says, again. “But I’m afraid there must have been some sort of misunderstanding. I do not _have_ a sister.”

A lie? Yes, but Lust’s existence is a secret. She _is_ his sister, for they share the essence of their father, but that is not something for his subjects to know. 

Ha. _His_ subjects-- he supposes they _are_ his, in a way. His to mold, his to destroy.

That _had_ been what Lust had said, just seven years before-- and has it _really_ only been seven years? Father works fast, he supposes, for his newest son is already ranked general. When he was introduced as their sibling, Lust had spoken to him, between Gluttony’s whinging, and Envy’s bitter, _jealous_ remarks.

_“Brother,”_ she’d whispered. _“You’re ours now. But they?”_ Gesturing to the streets of passers by, busybodies held at bay by the bustling crowds, her lips almost brushing his ear as she murmured. _“They are_ yours.”

“You’re the _spitting image_ of my father,” the woman chokes out as he turns to leave. “Please, sir, I have pictures,” she plunges her hand in the bag she’s carrying, pulling out two worn photographs. The gloss usually painted over pictures has all but wasted away, leaving dull, greying slips of paper-- and he almost refuses her.

There’s something, though. Something that compels him to take her offering, and even though he knows deep down how utterly worthless the images in his hand are, he treats them with a tenderness he hadn’t known he possessed.

“It’s how I knew,” the woman murmurs, watching him as he blinks at the parchment in his hands. “When they published your picture in the paper-- so _young_ for such a high position-- I knew you must be our Samuel. He was kidnapped as a baby. I was only four, you understand, but I still remember how tiny he was,” she smiles morosely. “If he was happy to see you, he’d wiggle his little hands and feet. He’d _smile,_ sometimes-- he learned to smile at such a young age as well, we always _knew_ there was something special about him, and, well-- _look_ at you, not even thirty and already a general.”

The first photograph is much older than the second; its edges are rougher and the paper is far more aged. The visage of a man not many years older than himself stares back, holding a little girl and a baby in his arms. The colouring is wrong, of course, for despite the off tones of the faded ink: the man’s eyes are too pale and his hair isn’t black, but instead a light chestnut. The children both have dark hair, and dark eyes that have to be blue, for there isn’t a hint of warmth within them. Perhaps taking after their mother in that regard?

_Still,_ he can see the resemblance. He might well have thought this to be a photo of himself in the right lighting, and that baffles as much as it repulses him. Any reminder that he used to be human (used be one of those _vile_ creatures) makes him want to _vomit._ It is objectively disgusting.

“Hmm,” is all he says, before he gestures to the second picture-- one of another child, black hair and black eyes and a huge, open-mouth grin covering the majority of his chubby face. “Who is this?”

“That,” the woman states, her mouth softening, her dark eyes _shining_ with pride-- she’s _proud_ of this boy. “Is my son, Selim.”

“You say you named him after your father,” he thumbs the edges of the tired paper, wearing it further still. “What was your father’s name?”

“Selim,” her voice catches as she speaks, and she clears her throat before she’s able to fully answer him. Of course. She’d referred to her father in the past tense just moments before-- no doubt the man had died, perhaps even recently. “Selim Elric, Sir.”

Elric. Samuel Elric. Could he have been that man? Could he have led that life?

No. How ridiculous a thought. She’s lying to him, she has to be-- she must be wanting status, or perhaps money. Or maybe she is simply delusional. He was chosen for this path, amongst just a handful of others, and then he’d won; he’d _won_ against _all_ the odds. It had been _his_ blood that had managed to withstand the philosopher’s stone. How can he be of the same simple stock as the woman before him? 

_Careful, Brother._ He can almost hear his eldest sibling taunting him. _You’re sounding a little_ too _much like me._

Too ridiculous, of course, but-- but it _is_ worth looking into, isn’t it? If only for something to laugh over. If he still _can_ laugh, that is. He hasn’t yet tested it out.

“Did he have any relatives? Anyone I might have heard of?”

“Oh,” the woman looks confused. Perhaps she thought he’d ask after her mother? But then, there is no mother in the photograph-- just a father, holding his children in a strong, protective grip. He has no need for a mother, he never has. He hasn’t one now, and, _perhaps, if,_ and _only_ if this woman is right, he didn’t have one then. 

_That’s not completely true, is it?_ Something-- _someone--_ within him whispers. _Who looks after you? Who taught you_ all _you knew of homunculi? Who_ scolded _you, when you made errors too_ human _for beings so superior?_

Flowing black hair and wicked eyes and sharp, piercing claws come to his mind unbidden, and he punishes the vortex of souls swirling within him. He must, for he doesn’t know which one felt brave enough to try their (metaphorical, for they’ll never have their own again) hand at manipulation.

“A younger brother,” is her answer. “Much younger, his daughter is around the same age as my little Selim, I should think.” she sighs, perhaps mistaking his reticence for interest. “I don’t know his whereabouts, the two were at odds by the time Papa passed.”

This woman gives out information too easily. Her tone is conspiratorial. He loathes humans like that-- those who will say _anything,_ just to give them a conversational edge, as though their own family’s secrets _don’t even matter._ He’d have been dead within a week had he behaved so appallingly towards his father. It grates on his nerves, to hear this woman so.. so _open--_ so much so that he has to swallow down his anger, for lieu of giving away the wrath bubbling in his veins.

Still. A younger Elric, a daughter. He’ll remember that.

He examines the picture more closely. The boy is a pretty child, and, well, his father _needs_ a pretty child; needs a child who might one day be able to warm the stony hearts of those last few protesters, the naysayers of the military dynasty-- but _this_ boy is too young, he’s not _ready._

“I presume he takes after his father?” He points out the obvious, for despite their shared dark hair, mother and son look nothing alike. He wonders belatedly whether this might offend the woman, but instead her face brightens, as though she’d been _hoping_ he might mention such a thing. 

“He’s a darling, isn’t he?” Her eyes are warm as she smiles at him. He’s not used to a smile like that-- all the smiles he’s known so far have been warped with the scheming machinations of those looking to usurp him or the starry-eyed hero worship of those too stupid to scheme. She’s smiling out of-- of love? Perhaps. He isn’t sure, because he’s never known what love looks like. It’s a weakness, and it's human and these are both attributes that make it worthless to him. “My husband is half Xingese, I suppose it really does show.”

Of course, _she_ believes he’s feeling the same admiration for the child. She believes he’s fallen for her lies.

“I apologise,” he insists this time. “There’s some sort of misunderstanding, Madam. I know my true parents,” _lie._ “I’m not the man you are looking for, I’m afraid.”

He thinks he might feel something were he human, as he watches her lithe form deflate and her dark eyes dim, but it is all he can do to bear witness with a cold detachment, for if he tries to feel anything, all he will feel is anger. 

He makes to return the pictures, but she refuses to take them. “No, no,” she says, her voice soft. “I want you to have them, General Bradley, as an apology for taking up so much of your time.”

She bows her head, before she turns and leaves, and he is left to stand the wake of a minor tornado. 

He turns the photograph of the child over in his hands, unruffled when he discovers the inscription, hastily scribbled in a rich blue ink:

_Selim Mustang._

This boy is the perfect child. He’s sure of it.


	2. Before

His earliest memories are of a nursery: bright colours and bird noises and lullabies. There’s crying too, though he can never recall whose it is. He doesn’t remember words, just noises and feelings and the faintest scent of fresh cotton. There’s always a bustle around him, different hands poking and prodding at him and cradling and rocking him. He doesn’t know if he is ever  _ loved,  _ he can’t remember, and he can’t give shape to a feeling he doesn’t understand. For a baby, the hands are enough to at least simulate affection, and so he lives and grows.

He remembers a little more clearly his toddler years-- years spent walking and talking and  _ learning.  _ He learns a lot, he’s taught a lot, by guiding hands that don’t hold him quite so gently. There are other small creatures that scratch and bite-- small creatures like  _ him,  _ and he learns to scratch and bite back, but he also learns how to play, and he understands the nuances of  _ that's my toy,  _ and  _ that’s your toy,  _ and also  _ maybe we can share that one. _ He learns who he is,  _ number twelve,  _ not one, not two, but twelve. It doesn’t mean anything to him until later-- for now, he is addressed by the shapeless syllables, and for now, he knows they’re his identifier.

He grows up always watched and always protected and  _ never  _ without company. He’s never alone. He doesn’t know how to be. He doesn’t ever learn how.

Eventually the shapes become people, and he starts to understand the noises they make. The creatures become playmates, and then competitors. They aren’t friends, because he doesn’t know what that word means yet, and in the truest sense, perhaps he never will. Later on a friend will become something worthless, an emotional crutch that others can use against you. Later he will be taught this, but in these earlier times there is no such thing to fear. 

He’s small on the day of  _ The Visit _ , still tiny compared to the misters and the sirs meandering their way through the institution on alternating days of continuity. He recognises each one of them, despite the fact that none would know beyond his status as subject, for this is his whole world-- they are his world. There is nothing beyond the four concrete walls that surround the courtyard. He knows grey stone and grey haired professors, grey teeth and gold teeth. That is all he knows. There is no concept of freedom. There never will be for him, though. You cannot miss what you never had, and this is something he will  _ never  _ have.

He’s placed in a room with the others, all of them huddled together in fear and confusion. They know something new, now. They know there is something beyond those grey walls, for something is about to come in, and something cannot come from nothing. The world was created once and it will be born again. This, they have been taught since the moment they could understand human language. Born again. That is what they are there to facilitate. 

Except they now know that the world they are destined to remake is bigger than the institution. It always has been, and even in his simplistic, childish reality, he understands that bigger might mean colossal, or even insurmountable. A thrill of terror takes hold, fleetingly, before he is distracted by the sound of heavy footsteps and new voices, and he remembers the more immediate unknown presence. 

There are two newcomers. They’re both tall, dark-haired and much older than he is. One, he thinks, is a man. The other is clearly a woman and she is intriguing-- he has never seen a woman up close, though he has learned about them. He knows he came from a woman, once, though he has never been told which one, but-- but  _ this  _ one has black hair, just like him, and so he thinks it must have been her. After all, that  _ is  _ how genetics works. They’ve been taught about genetics, too.

(A child’s mind makes all sorts of leaps, and years later, when he can finally comprehend the flaw in his young logic, he feels weird and empty, and his eyes start to leak.)

“They’re all wimps,” the younger-looking one offers. His voice is unpleasant.

The woman beside him shakes her head dismissively. “They’re human children, Envy,” she says. “I don’t know what you expected.” She has a nice tone. It’s soothing, and he decides he likes her voice much better. She’s also very pretty, and he likes that too.

He watches as she bends over, picking up one of the bigger children. Number three. His hair is blond and his eyes are green, and he’s smiling at her as she lifts him.

“This one is strong,” she pronounces, looking over the small form with a dissecting expression. “Perhaps he will be our Wrath.”

He doesn’t understand what she means, but seeing the other child cradled by  _ her,  _ and  _ she  _ is  _ his  _ (he came from her, so she must be his) fills his stomach with something bitter and uncomfortable. It doesn’t feel nice-- rather, it feels  _ horrid,  _ and he wants to scream and scream and he wants to kick and to bite. Fighting isn’t discouraged, but being undisciplined  _ is,  _ and so he doesn’t hurt anyone, but he does run to the woman, holding his arms in the air, demanding.  _ Pick  _ me  _ up.  _

He  _ is  _ lifted, but it is not by the woman. The hands holding him give him a shake, and he twists in their grasp, trying to see who they’re attached to. 

The sneering voice of the woman’s accomplice fills his ears. “What a runt,” the man laughs too loudly. “I reckon we’re wasting resources on this one, Lust.”

“Envy,” the woman’s voice is calm as she bounces number three in her arms. “That is not how we hold children,” the words could have been scolding, but the manner in which she speaks them suggests this is not the case-- rather it seems as though she doesn’t particularly care either way, and is simply informing the man of this fact. “Humans grow. That one might yet.”

“Hmm,” the man, Envy, turns him in his grasp. “Number twelve, huh?”

He comes face to face with a sneer, and he remains impassive. He isn’t scared.

“Kid’s got guts,” Envy grunts, before placing him back on the floor.

Both of the visitors leave soon after that-- he hears the word ‘inspection’, and the sirs and the misters are whispering about funding, and he wonders if that was why they came in the first place. He knows money is important, and so it makes sense that it would be involved.

He grows for a few years before they visit again. The next time they come by, he understands his purpose-- he is in a  _ competition.  _ His playmates are his competitors. His job, he is told, is to be the best. At  _ everything. _

He knows he’ll win.

This time, nobody is held-- they don’t even speak to them, neither Envy nor the woman, who he learns is called Lust. She isn’t his mother. She isn’t anyone’s mother. She’s  _ Superior,  _ something they are all fighting to become. They stand and observe and take notes, and then leave again, smirks curling over their faces in synchronicity. 

_ Become better,  _ he is told.  _ Become better. You must be better.  _

He isn’t good enough. But he will be. 

He will be. 

* * *

He is.

Lust holds his hand. “I’m here to help you,” she says. “You’re a success, King. Don’t forget that, but do not let it blind you.”

“Blind?” he asks.

“Do not give in to your human urges,” she whispers. “You’re  _ not  _ human, King. You’re something better.”

“Better?” he asks.

“Yes,” she laughs, amused. “Don’t you know? You’re one of us.”


	3. Selim

There’s blood on the kitchen floor and a sleeping child in his arms.

Lust picks at her fingernails as she surveys the fresh cadavers. Her long appendages are drenched in red. 

“He really is perfect,” she murmurs, staring at the boy he is cradling. “Did you know him, Wrath?”

He hesitates, glancing down at the mutilated body of the woman. There isn’t much left of her, but the hair is recognisable: a mass of dark curls, splayed haphazardly about her head, and her eyes, now glassy and unseeing, are still that same, deep blue colour. He sees that colour every morning in the mirror. He hates it. 

He remembers the feeling of his hands around her thin neck. He’d  _ relished it.  _ It was over all too quickly, Lust slicing her body into ribbons.  _ “We’ve a job to do,”  _ his sister had murmured.  _ “Can’t be having too much fun.” _

“No,” he says. “It was a chance meeting.”

Lust narrows her eyes. It’s apparent that she doesn’t believe him, but she won’t question him about it. She isn’t Greed; her lust doesn’t extend to material pleasures, nor to knowledge. Instead she takes the child he holds into her arms, turning abruptly on her heel. “Deal with the mess, Wrath,” her voice is sharp, her words like knives; punishment for deceiving her, he supposes. 

She’s turning to leave when they both hear it: a high pitched wail, unmistakably one of a human infant, floating down the flight of stairs.

“Another child,” Lust rounds on him, anger twisting her usually beautiful expression. It looks wrong-- it  _ is  _ wrong, seeing his rage so plainly on the face of another. “There’s a child upstairs, Bradley.  _ Why didn’t you tell me?” _

“I didn’t know,” he answers, truthfully, and when Lust turns towards the staircase he holds out a hand to stop her. “Let me, Sister.”

Lust sizes him up, dark eyes piercing. “Make it quick,” is all she says after a moment. “Father’s waiting.”

His heart won’t stop hammering and he thinks Lust has noticed. She’s staring at him oddly, and doesn’t relent until he’s turned on his heel and has begun climbing the staircase. He doesn’t understand; the reaction isn’t foreign to him-- adrenaline comes hand in hand with wrath after all, but somehow this feels different and he  _ doesn’t understand-- _

He finds himself in a nursery.

It’s a far cry from the barren place he was raised. The wallpaper is yellow, and covered with daffodils and crocuses-- hand painted, he thinks. The window is shut tight behind pastel curtains. He’s sure none of the neighbours heard the child crying.

Toys litter the floor, clearly too complex for an infant this young. It is obvious that the little boy they’ve stolen used to play here, in his siblings room. 

He thinks of the broken woman downstairs. Did they play together, before he was taken away by Father?

He finds he doesn’t care.

The baby is tiny, but it’s standing on its pudgy legs, clinging to the bars of the cot. It’s dark eyes are wide and its chubby cheeks streaked with tears. It can’t be more than a year old. 

King kneels beside the cradle.

“Muh, muh, muh,” the baby wails. 

King sneers.

The baby, whose name is Roy, if he goes by the carved wooden letters pinned to the wall, screams.

He wants to snap it’s puny neck.

In another life, this child would have been his nephew. 

He doesn’t know why he does it, but he stands, opening the window fully before turning and walking back down the stairs and out the front door. 

It doesn’t matter. This child is insignificant. Allowing it to live is no different than letting it die. Not really.

There is a sour taste in his mouth.

* * *

Father strokes the child’s face, enamoured. “You’ve chosen well, Wrath, Lust.”

Neither of them say anything, but King feels his stomach turn.

He doesn’t know why.

He watches as Father snaps the boy’s neck in one swift movement, before taking out a scalpel, and slicing cleanly down the child’s left side, from the tip of his head down to the child’s toes. 

“Gluttony,” their father calls. “Come here, my child.”

His brother lumbers towards Father. “Can I eat him?”

“You may only consume what I give to you, Gluttony,” Father says by way of answer. “Be as patient as you can.”

King thinks Gluttony is babied by Father. Their father doesn’t love them, but they are his children and he supposes that is why.

Father begins by removing muscles and sinew. He breaks the humerus at the shoulder, sliding it out from beneath the skin of the arm. Gluttony swallows it whole.

There’s something to be said for the way Gluttony is able to decimate whatever is put in front of him-- be it food or human flesh-- in a matter of seconds and still be left wanting more, more, more. 

King can’t relate. Greed has long since struck out on his own, years before King had even been born. He’s the most similar to Gluttony; is just as likely to feel yearning for something beyond his reach-- but then, there is a distinction, else Father would not have made one. Now, if only he were able to  _ meet  _ his older, wayward brother, he might be able to figure it out.

Pride pulls on his new skin like a suit. The bloodied shreds mould seamlessly together, crackling with light and probably expending a few souls in the process. He walks up to King, “I’ve heard you’re to be my father,” he says.

And then he smiles bitingly, “Little brother.”

King only nods before he turns to leave ignoring Envy’s mocking jeers. He has no time for such pettiness.

Envy is such a child.


End file.
